still breathing
by MirrorShard
Summary: After the death of one of his best agents, the head of MI6 Alan Blunt makes a risky play. Unfortunately for him, Yassen Gregorovich follows no one's rules but his own. And then there's Alex Rider, the hapless kid caught in the middle of it all — the one nobody expects to have an agenda of his own. But Ian Rider raised no fool. Series of connected one shots. AU.


_This fic contains a **series of connected one shots**. Each one can be read as a standalone, but they're all part of the _still breathing _verse, which starts out fairly close to canon and then diverges due to the ripple effects of a different decision Ian Rider makes._

* * *

 **don't bury me**

 _Why did Ian Rider raise his nephew to become a spy? The answer is simple: He didn't._

* * *

Ian Rider is a patriot.

It's conviction — _idealism_ , their mother used to call it, a bit too sharp to be fond, and there's a too large part of Ian that is glad she isn't around to carry Johnny to his grave — an innate belief that he's never bothered to explain because it's just the way it is. It's worth it. His service. The sacrifices he makes. Sweet, snappy Lilian, who ends their relationship before it can truly start because not everyone is kindness and understanding incarnate the way Helen is. His father, who died before Ian was old enough to properly remember him.

It's worth it.

In all the years he's worked for SIS Ian has never doubted that. Never doubted that he would do his damn best to do his country right. To protect those who needed to be protected. To make the choices, the call so others wouldn't have to.

If he wasn't willing to sacrifice his relationships, his career, his life for his country, Ian wouldn't have lasted as long as he did, wouldn't have risen through the ranks the way he did, wouldn't have given so much of himself to become what his country needs him to be. He wouldn't have made it this far if he didn't _love_ his job. Didn't believe in it with everything he is.

But despite the calculated — and, occasionally, admittedly less calculated — risks, death threats and glamorous parties his job includes every now and then, Ian Rider is at the heart of the matter a very simple man with a simple set of rules. It started as a game, once upon a time. Two giggling boys playing at being spies under the wry smiles and tolerant head-shakes of watchful adults, whispering in secret codes of their own making and inventing new rules for every game they start.

 _I want chocolate ice cream_ , Johnny would yell at the top of his lungs over the schoolyard, much to the amusement of their peers, the exasperation of his teachers, and Ian would come running because _It's important_ is not a plea his little brother has ever used lightly.

[ _Thanksgiving is a lost cause, I just can't get Grandma's damn cranberry sauce right_ , Ian states, clings to the thin veneer of frustrated annoyance with single-minded determination because if he thinks about the fact that his little brother is going to learn about their mother's passing through a coded voicemail on a burner phone he's not supposed to have, Ian is going to—]

They grow and they change, but some habits are hard to shake. Some habits are natural, are _Ian and John_ , and for a long time, Ian doesn't think about it.

After all, they _are_ brothers. They're supposed to be close. Supposed to have each other's back without question. Supposed to have their own secrets, their own ways of passing on messages.

 _I'm Evan and this is James. We're doing a school project on old, historical buildings, do you think we could take a look around real quick?_

 _Look man, I'm not one to judge and if you wanna get your brother a fake ID that's your business, totally not getting involved in family shit. But why does he need three different ones?_

 _Could you do me a favor and tell Ian that football practice is gonna start early tomorrow? Coach will throw a fit if he's late again._

Ian doesn't remember how often he'd been told that his job had changed him. Back in the early years, when there were still people around to notice, people not in the know who knew him well enough to catch something, even if they didn't understand what it was they were seeing. Lilian, in particular, had hated it. It would be a bold lie to say that she'd been happy about the army, but SIS had been another matter altogether.

 _I don't even know why they bothered with the OSA_ , she'd hissed in one of their nastier fights. _It's not like you ever tell me anything!_

 _We never talk about anything anymore!_ had been another, common accusation. But ultimately had been the quiet, resigned _I feel like I don't even know you anymore_ that had ended their relationship for good.

Lilian had not been the only one of his then-friends who had thought so. But even to this day, Ian still disagrees with the sentiment. Sure, his silence regarding his work life, the ever-increasing secrets that have become part of his every day reality, haven't exactly helped matters. Life as an agent isn't conductive for a healthy social life, that's true enough. What isn't quite such a simple truth is this: Ian doesn't think his job has changed him all that much.

 _Manipulative, little bastards_ , their ageless hag of a chemistry teacher used to call them. Fondly, but that is hardly the point — nor does it make the words any less true.

Ian prides himself on being self-aware and honest, even if it's just in the privacy of his own mind. He knows he's charming and attractive and not ashamed to use that to his advantage. He knows Johnny has sticky fingers when bored and a talent for making people do what he wants, whilst making them think it was their idea in the first place. An old army buddy of their father's has taught them how to play poker and cheat at poker in the same breath, and it's a skill they've both liberally applied in various areas of their lives.

The army teaches them respect, discipline and structure.

[It teaches them to stay expressionless in the face of endless insults and scorn, teaches them that some payback is worth the punishment, teaches them to not get caught, teaches them to follow the letter instead of the spirit of the law, teaches them that taking the pushes lying down is not something either of them excels at.]

[There is a reason nobody is surprised when John Rider gets himself binned — if anything, the real surprise is that Ian completes his training before he disappears into the maze that is between agency recruitment.]

At nineteen, Ian tells stories about football and jiu-jitsu when Johnny gets caught up at the shooting range again. At twenty-four, it's snappy tales of prison and petty crimes instead of SCORPIA.

The Riders aren't clean, not really.

[But then, who among SIS most efficient operatives is?]

[But then, who among SCORPIA's deadliest operatives is?]

And so the truth is, nothing much has changed. The stakes have risen, but the game they play is still the same. Ian Rider is still the same.

After all, it's who he is, who he's _always_ been, that makes him so damn good at what he does.

Ian's not a good man, not even an honest man, but he is a patriot. Heaven knows where he picked it up — it sure wasn't his darling mother who threatened to cold-conk him with a frying pan if he dared to pull Johnny into his army-nonsense — but it's been a part of him for as long as Ian can remember, and it's not like it bothers him.

Or.

It never used to bother him.

 _It's worth it._

He believes that. He used to believe that. Back when he'd naively thought there wasn't anything he wasn't prepared to sacrifice.

Now, standing here, staring down at the beautiful grave stone that is all that remains of Johnny and sweet Helen, Ian knows he was terribly, devastatingly wrong. He is a patriot — he _is_ — and he believes — he _does_ — but there's a line he's drawn in the sand long ago. A line Ian isn't prepared to cross, not for SIS, not for England, not for anything.

Instinctively, his arms tighten around the last remains of his family he has left. His nephew has been fussy for days now, likely in reaction to Ian's own tension and grief, as well as the lack of his parents. Alex might be too young to comprehend this loss, but he's well-aware that something has changed. His nightly fits are proof enough.

The toddler is tiny — the doctor that checked him over after passing three increasingly background checks because Ian is not taking any chances has assured him that he's completely normal and well on his way to full health again — and reminds Ian of his earliest childhood memories with Johnny in all the best, worst ways. But Alex isn't John. Alex isn't his stubborn, loyal, bleeding-heart, utter bastard of a brother who thought it appropriate to let Ian know about his engagement by sending him a bloody candy ring. Whilst Ian was undercover in a Mexican drug cartel.

The cheeky, little shit.

Alex blinks his eyes open and Ian utterly unprepared for the sleepy, big, blue eyes and tiny nose crunched up in irritation that greet him. Irrationally, he finds himself hoping that the kid's eyes will turn into the same mischievous, warm brown that Johnny has been known to use to their full, devastating effect.

Lord help him but Ian _misses_ those eyes.

Little Alex yawns — which is, admittedly, adorable, Ian can think of a hundred and fifty ways in which having such a cute distraction available during missions would come in handy— He can also think of a hundred and fifty ways in which Helen's ghost will rise from her empty casket and brutally slaughter him, should he dare to put her precious son at risk. And John wouldn't be too far behind.

John had loved Helen with all his heart and Alex was his whole world, but Ian has no illusions about his brother. John had a cruel streak several miles long and a vindictive streak that wasn't too far behind — had, in fact, possessed them long before he ever heard the name SCORPIA. And Helen was a warm, kindhearted woman, yes, but she was also vicious when pissed off and never forgot or forgave a perceived slight.

Suffice to say, Ian isn't that eager for a family reunion from beyond the grave, thank you very much.

He can feel the blistering heat of Helen's warning glare at the back of his neck even now. There's no one there, of course — safe for the security detail Jones thinks she's so stealthily assigned to him — but Ian can hear the outraged threat lingering in the cool morning air just fine.

 _Over my dead body are you gonna get my son entangled with that mess you call a job, Ian! And what are you thinking, taking him outdoors without a hat? He's only just begun to recover, for god's sake!_

Ian shudders. Right then.

Failing Alex is not an option.

Not that it ever was, but it's always good to know that Ian and his sister-in-law are on the same page.

 _Don't worry, Helen_ , Ian thinks and carefully tucks the soft, woolen cap over his tiny nephew's ears, _Alex won't follow in his father's footsteps. He's gonna be better than us. He's going to live. I'll make sure of it._

It helps, more than Ian would like to admit, to remind himself that Alex isn't John. That John, like Helen, wouldn't have wanted an heir to pass on his skills to — not after SCORPIA, not after a too-long list of names that Johnny only talked about when he was black-out drunk — wanted peace, happiness, a _son_.

No matter how little Ian thinks retirement would have suited him.

But Alex isn't John. Isn't addicted to the rush, the thrill, the hunt. Isn't worn down by blood and hard choices that may have been necessary but were never right. Isn't so practiced at lying, he sometimes forgets what the truth used to be.

More than anything else, Alex is _alive_. And Ian will do whatever it takes to keep him that way. The line in the sand has never been clearer.

Alex turns his head, snuffles in that way Ian has learned means he's about to cry. Hefting the fussy infant up against his shoulder in a secure hold, he leans down and places a bunch of bubblegum pink roses in front of the marble stone. There's a card in there somewhere, proclaiming "To the world's prettiest princess" in glittering letters — and Ian doesn't need to close his eyes to hear Helen's delighted cackle, John's horrified groan.

 _Now we're even, little brother_.

Then he turns around and crosses the graveyard with long, confident strides. And if he happens to lose his shadows three streets later, well, nobody can prove he knew they were there in the first place. Amateurs.

[Ian Rider is a patriot. That doesn't change. It never will, and he can't even bring himself to regret it. But there is a line he drew a long time ago, and old and weathered though it may be, it still matters.

Ian Rider is a patriot. He raises Alex to be better than that.]

* * *

Ian doesn't visit the grave again. He doesn't need to.

* * *

Ian Rider is a soldier.

Special operations is both exactly like the army and completely different at the same time. To this day, Ian still hasn't decided whether that is a good thing or not. Overall, it's probably for the best. Once he's worked himself up the ranks a bit, proven his abilities, Ian gets the kind of missions that leave you with a lot of leeway and coverup from the bosses. The downside being that when you're caught, you can't count on anyone bailing you out — but Ian's always liked a challenge and he's damn good at getting himself out when he needs to.

Point is, Ian doesn't do too well with structure. The predictability of it makes him twitchy. Hell, he wouldn't have lasted much longer than John in the army if he hadn't felt like he had something to prove. So it's likely for the best that they picked him up right before his first tour.

Lord knows, war-zones are overrated. Too explosive, and Ian's not talking about the good kind of going boom.

To be brutally honest, Ian probably would have gotten himself discharged within the first year. The only question that he isn't sure he wants to know the answer to is whether it would have been honorably or dishonorably. Not that Ian would ever sell out his country — it's a line, alright, and Ian has very few lines as it is — but that doesn't mean he doesn't occasionally do shit that makes perfect sense in the heat of the moment and looks like an absolute crackpot of an idea on paper.

Like that time he blew up the British Embassy in Phnom Penh.

The army would have definitely discharged him for that.

Actually, SIS should have probably discharged him for that.

In Ian's defense: the mission had been a complete success. And also, nowhere in the mission briefing did anyone specify that he couldn't burn down an embassy. It was, if Jones' words were to be trusted, a widely accepted and strongly implied fact but it hadn't been specified. On an unrelated note, his briefings have grown increasingly detailed over the years. There's a whole online appendix containing the list of things he's not allowed to do unless explicitly asked for.

Ian treats it as a sort of loose guideline.

As long as he doesn't fail, he's too valuable an asset to be ditched. And if he were to fail, well, he'd be dead long before the charming heads of Britain's secret intelligence services ever caught up with him. Cheers to that.

All inappropriate humor aside, Ian is neither stupid nor insane — that SIS's psychiatrists can only agree on the former is entirely irrelevant. Fucking with them is just too much fun and really, if Ian wanted someone to confide in, he'd get a dog. At least, that one he could train to attack on command. His psychiatrists aren't as morally flexible. Well, except maybe Doctor Amber. But then, his sessions can usually be summed up with " _I figure you're gonna die before you're thirty anyways, might as well have fun while you're at it. Just try to keep the collateral damage down for the sake of our esteemed overlord's blood pressure, alright?_ " — he's perfectly aware that he isn't much more than a glorified attack-dog.

Ian gets his orders and he follows them. Same as any other soldier. And while killing isn't usually a requirement — he's _not_ an assassin, okay, Ian left the mercenary shit to his upstart of a little brother — it's almost always a part of it. There's just too many people willing to kill for what they believe in. Too many people willing to burn the world down because it isn't to their liking.

Sometimes, rarely, on the bad days, Ian wonders about the point of fighting a war that can't be won, only dragged out.

He won't ever stop, he knows himself too well to assume anything else. Ian wouldn't know what to do with himself if he did — the first three years with Alex that he'd spent almost completely off-duty had been some of the worst of his life. It isn't Alex' fault. And it's not that Ian doesn't enjoy spending time with his brother's son because he does.

But he'd given up on the option of a family a long time ago for a reason. Ian isn't suited for a civilian life. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

[None of the best operatives are.]

That said, on days like this one, when the violence vibrates restlessly under his skin and refuses to settle, when all he hears is cries and pleas and feels naked without the weight of a gun in his hand, days when he reaches for a gun that isn't there — _thank god_ it isn't there — when Alex unexpectedly speaks up behind him, Ian almost wishes he could. Wishes he could forget, could say " _I'm done_ ," and mean it.

Almost.

With a blink Ian banishes those pointless musings. Unfortunately, the memory of another young boy, staring up at him with wide eyes — Ian doesn't believe in innocence, but children are damn close — is not so easily forgotten. The kid didn't look anything like Alex. His hair was darker, he was a tad taller, skinnier, with curlier hair and fuller lips. But he'd had that same look that Alex wears when Ian tells him that _No, popcorn is not an acceptable replacement for dinner, I don't care what Tom told you_ , a pouty frown that speaks of all of John's stubborn determination, all of Helen's unyielding _bring it on_.

Ian had shot the kid. He hadn't even hesitated.

And it wasn't the right choice — how can something like this ever be right? — but it was the necessary one. The _correct_ one, even. The kid had been just that, a kid, but he'd also been the enemy. He'd also been a soldier. And it doesn't matter that he was too young to understand, it only matters that he was old enough to kill.

Maybe Ian has been in the game too long, for all he thought of in that brief moment before he pulled the trigger was Alex and all he saw was a _weapon_. Children are the worst. But they're not harmless. They're not innocent. And Ian knows better than to hesitate, knows better than to underestimate them, knows better than to give quarter.

Maybe he's been in the game just long enough.

There's no such thing as being too young to die.

[There's no such thing as being to young to kill either.]

Ian doesn't know what they told the boy. He doesn't need to. Fear, promises, intimidation, hope, desperation— it makes no difference in the end. Children are easy that way. Old enough to get a job done, young enough not care or even understand the repercussions. Children are malleable. Trainable. Easy to shape after your own preferences.

"Ian?" Alex asks, his soft voice cutting through the ongoing battle in Ian's mind with startling ease. "Are you gonna stay for a while?"

He looks hopeful, pleading almost, and a dark, terrible part of Ian — the patriot, the soldier, the spy — wonders what Alex would be willing to do for a simple "Yes."

 _Trainable_.

Unbidden, the word slitters through his mind, with a biting coldness that burns, leaving frost on everything it touches. Alex is young, still, only six years old and Ian knows too much about human psychology not to understand how easy it would be to overwrite his entire personality still, to mold him into whatever they would need him to be.

A weapon to sick on their enemies. A soldier following orders.

That's the thing about children, isn't it? It would be _so easy_.

Ian slowly sinks to his knees so that he is on eye-level with his nephew, who looks increasingly anxious, biting his bottom lip — and that's a tell they'll have to get rid off soon.

"Yes, Alex," he says, voice even, betraying none of his racing thoughts, nor the turmoil of emotions rumbling beneath them. "I'm going to stay a while."

Alex' entire face lights up at that — it feels surprisingly like a hard punch to the guts — and then he's hugging Ian as tightly as he can. He'll have to learn more efficient grips, Ian thinks even though he returns the hug.

 _Trainable_.

Ian thinks of a dead, little boy with too many explosives. Of John's clipped reports about SCORPIA's training methods. Of the interest Blunt hadn't quite managed to hide. Of how easily you can teach a kid to fight, to die, to follow orders without question. It's twisted and wrong beyond measures, but Ian lives in a world made of collateral damage and necessary sacrifices for the greater good. A world with no regard for principles and innocence because it can't afford such frivolities.

Ian thinks of little Alex with his bright eyes and shy smile, who picked up French and Spanish with enviable ease, who learns knots and reads maps and hardly ever complains about all the times Ian isn't around. Thinks of lines and the few rules that he will always, always follow. The thought alone should probably make Ian sick. But he's been in the business for a long time, and the truth is, practicality wins over sentiment every damn time. It has to.

That's why, in the end, it's not even a real choice. Ian does what he has been doing from the very first day when a hysterical nanny placed a tiny bundle in his arms — and he would mourn Alex' innocence, maybe, if Ian were the kind of man to believe in innocence.

Gently, he pulls Alex off him, but keeps a hold on his shoulders. "Ask me why, Alex," Ian commands, not sharply but serious all the same.

Alex tilts his head, scrunches up his nose in confusion. "Why?" he asks obediently, and the certainty that he's doing the right thing settles into Ian's bones, steels them against the burden of all the other loyalties he carries.

"Because people always have an agenda. They always want something from you, even if they sometimes don't know what that is. That's why you always, always have to ask "Why," when someone tells you something. So that you know what they want from you and then you can properly think about whether you want to give them what they want or not."

Alex frowns thoughtfully. "But what if they're lying?"

"Good question." Ian smiles at the way Alex brightens. "It's true, you can't know if they're lying or not. But it doesn't hurt to ask. And you can then compare their answer to their actions, see if they were telling the truth or not. Because if they did lie, then you'll know that you can't trust. Because when someone is willing to lie to you once—"

"—they'll do it again," Alex choruses, more than familiar with this particular lecture.

"Exactly. And that's why you always ask why and don't just accept an answer without questioning it. In fact, this so is important that we're going to make it Rule 3," Ian decides after a moment of deliberation.

Alex' eyes widen at the declaration — he knows how important the Rules are, even though Ian is well-aware that true comprehension will only set in at around age eleven to thirteen, at the earliest.

"So, what's Rule 3, Alex?"

"People always have an agenda, always ask why," Alex repeats obediently. Then promptly continues, "Ian, why is it important enough to be a Rule?"

 _Alex_ , Ian thinks with no small amount of pride, _has always been a quick study_.

[Ian Rider is a soldier. It's his job to see missions through, to end them, to follow the orders of his superiors without questions. In the messy world just outside the law, there's too many questionable choices to be made to keep your hands clean and your consciousness at ease. Ian has to believe that he does what he does for the right reasons, has to trust that if nothing else, because this deep in the battlefield black and white look much the same. And he doesn't mind, has long ago made peace with the questions he'll never ask and the hesitation that never comes. It's who he is.

Ian Rider is a soldier. He raises Alex to be better than that.]

* * *

Ian doesn't wonder what John and Helen would think if they could see Alex now. He already knows.

* * *

Ian Rider is a spy.

These days, most people Ian has any sort of regular contact with are aware of this. Which makes it all sorts of hilarious that they rarely treat him as one. To a certain degree, Ian supposes he can understand that. The higher-ups care about how they can use his skills with maximal effect. The technicians don't have enough practical experience to understand what his job actually means. And Ian doesn't have close relationships with active agents.

Still. It's surprising how often people treat his job as something that can be switched off and on at will. As though being off-duty would make him any less observant. As though handing his gun in at the end of each assignment would somehow disarm his mind.

It doesn't work like that.

Ian is a spy. That's who he is, what he is. It's not something he can turn off, just because he'd prefer not to know that Amanda Pierce from Accounting has an interesting arrangement with Kyle Isbourgh and Brian O'Miller from the fifth floor. He can't not notice that Tulip Jones has missed her monthly hairdresser's appointment or that Jess from security is worried about losing custody of his twin daughters in the divorce.

He may not act on the information he gathers, may not even let on that he notices anything out of the ordinary, but he does. Of course he does. Information is the currency Ian's whole life resolves around. There's no _ignorance is bliss_. No _eavesdropping is wrong_. And certainly no hesitation because it's really none of his business.

Information is gold and Ian Rider knows better than most that seemingly inconsequential details can make the difference between life and death.

And so he takes great care to teach Alex that there is no such thing as useless knowledge. That ignorance doesn't protect you. That you never reveal the full extent of your knowledge — because being overestimated is great and being underestimated is even better — because people are never as careful nor as subtle as they think they are.

Not even when in the company of a seasoned spy. And Ian does what he's been trained to do: play along, pretend not to notice the tells and clues, and carefully memorize every new tidbit the people around him let slip.

* * *

" _No, I don't!"_ _John disagrees hotly. "It was a calculated decision, sooner or later I had to take on a trainee! That doesn't mean I care for him, just that I'm doing my damn job!"_

 _Ian doesn't bother calling his brother out on his lie. It's better if neither of them acknowledge the truth._

* * *

["And so the Hunter killed the poisonous snake and saved the thief's life."

"But why?" Alex asks in between two jaw-cracking yawns.

Ian smiles down at his exhausted nephew. "Why what, Alex?"

"Why did the hunter protect the thief?"

"Should he not have?" Ian asks back. "Should he have let the thief die?"

Alex frowns at him, suspicion of this being yet another test clear in his eyes, even as he answers. "No, _duh_. But shouldn't he have caught him and brought him back to the village? That was his job, right?"

"Right," Ian confirms. "And maybe the Hunter should have caught the thief afterwards, before he had the chance to slip away again. But instead the Hunter chose to take the risk that the thief might escape alive — and in doing so, he gained a life-long friend. Remember, Alex, friends are one of the best investments you can make. And it doesn't matter if they're hunters or policemen or thieves. They don't need to be good people to be a good friend to you. Good is a relative term as it is—"

"Yeah, yeah," Alex interrupts impatient, reminding Ian that two hours after his ten year old nephew's bedtime is not the time to drift off into another lecture on morality. "' _There's no good or evil, only power and those too weak to seek it'_ , right?" ***(1)**

Ian rolls his eyes. The times where they could make it through one camping trip without a Harry Potter reference have long since passed — Ian blames Jack Starbright.

"Exactly, you cheeky, little brat."

Alex grins proudly, then immediately yelps indignantly when Ian reaches over to ruffle his hair.]

* * *

 _"And how is young Alex doing?" Blunt asks, his tone the perfect blend between disinterest and polite inquiry._

 _"Not as well as I was hoping," Ian replies just as evenly. He doesn't mention that Alex is doing far better than he'd hoped. Because Blunt doesn't do polite and Ian might pretend not to notice, to be distracted by his new mission briefing and the limitations Jones has helpfully printed out for him, but Ian wouldn't be as good at his job if that were all it takes to lower his guard._

* * *

["I'm going to be away for the next two weeks, on a business trip," Ian announces on one of Miss Starbright's rare evenings off. The woman will be furious enough at his continuous absence when he tells her tomorrow, Alex doesn't need to witness the argument.

Alex lowers his spoon slowly, though he does a good job of masking his disappointment. "Why?" he asks.

There are days Ian regrets teaching — and reinforcing — that particular lesson.

He opens his mouth, various ready-made excuses about international cooperations and meetings already on the tip of his tongue. Closes it again. Regards Alex, who is watching him with sharp, brown eyes so achingly like John's. There's something in that expression that Ian hasn't seen directed at him in a long time — distrust.

It's not too surprising. Alex has taken to all his lessons like a duck to water, has embraced some of them with more vigor than is perhaps advisable — Ian really wishes the boy would stop making friends in unsavory places, for one —and he's smart. More than that, he spends more time with Ian, knows Ian far better than anyone else who's ever been fed the banker excuse. And really, the boy is twelve. Old enough to keep a secret or two, he's already proven that much.

Yes, Ian decides after a long moment of careful consideration. In recent years, his assignments have steadily grown more dangerous, what with Alex being no longer as dependent on him as he used to be. Really, it's high time that they have this conversation.]

Lack of information makes one vulnerable. Few people know this as intimately as Ian. And so, just as in every other area of his life, Ian trains Alex to the best of his ability to be strong and to defend himself, against ignorance as much as against physical violence.

[Ian Rider is a spy. He is taught the value of information, the sensitivity of secrets, the importance of keeping quiet. His very life depends on this, on knowing what he is supposed to know and what not, always just enough to make it by but never enough to be considered too big a threat. He knows to lie and evade and he knows to never, ever share a truth that doesn't need to be shared.

Ian Rider is a spy. He raises Alex to be better than that.]

* * *

Ian Rider is many things. A patriot, a soldier, a spy. He lies, fights and kills for his country. But for all the names he carries, all the choices he makes and all the lies he tells, he is, at the heart of the matter, a simple man. Every man has a price and Ian has drawn his line in the sand many years ago. He may have few rules, but the ones he has are always followed. And everything Ian does, every action he takes, every step he makes is a means to an end — to uphold an oath he made on his brother's grave and keep a promise the dead are holding him to.

[The day Ian buries his little brother is the day he begins to prepare Alex for his own death.]

* * *

 **the end**

* * *

 _*(1) Voldemort to Harry Potter, in Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone._

 _Okay, I really needed to write this because the damn thing refused to leave me alone and I had to get it out of my system. I don't think my interpretation of Ian, John and Helen is very fanon-typical, but I think canon leaves us a lot of room to play here, so *shrug*_

 _Also, in case anyone is interested in what inspired this one shot: The first part (patriot) is basically my reasoning on why Alex wasn't raised as a patriot and still technically canon-compliant (IMO, but I haven't read the books in a while so I may be wrong). The second part (soldier) is the incident where this verse veers off-canon: Shooting that child on one of his missions is what motivates Ian to train Alex differently. In particular, he tries to help Alex build up resistance to manipulation techniques etc., further his critical thinking and instill a (possibly unhealthy) sense of distrust of other people's motivations in him. The third part (spy) is based on another one of my musings that Alex probably learnt more from Ian's secretive nature than he realizes. From the very beginning, he's incredibly hesitant of sharing information with anyone, long before Sabina disbelieves him, and I think he might have subconsciously learned that from Ian. So in this verse, Ian having a more honest relationship with his nephew will have big consequences further down the road... If I ever manage to write the next part, that is._

 _In any case, I hope you enjoyed this and if you aren't in a hurry, feel free to drop me a comment with your thoughts! ;)_

* * *

 _Next installment will be:_ They underestimated Gregorovich's loyalty to SCORPIA. [They underestimated Yassen's loyalty to John Rider.]


End file.
